


meet me in the afterglow.

by bylass



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, F/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Time Skip, byleth finding feelings, claude is a clod, divine pulse angst, heartbeat teasing, hilda is mvp wingwoman, in this house we address claude's secrets and byleth's leadership, kissing will begin midway through war why wait for s-support, we're doing it all folks, wow they're incredibly in love all the time, wyvern shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2020-09-28 16:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20428805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bylass/pseuds/bylass
Summary: Falling in love was strategically the worst wartime decision Byleth and Claude could have made.And yet.(the making of a queen, her king, and their new dawn)[ now with art! ]





	1. i lived like an island

**Author's Note:**

> When I speedwrote the Blue Lions!Byleth/Claude a.k.a. [winding paths between war and dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20209801) I touched upon a few things I wanted to explore again, so here we are again but in familiar Golden Deer territory. I want to see them actually work through stuff and help each other grow and be stupidly cute so there'll be a mix of everything.
> 
> I can't promise regular updates but the whole thing is "thematically-connected snapshots" style, so each chapter should feel decently satisfying; it just all happens to be one timeline.
> 
> (title and chapter titles from "Afterglow" by Taylor Swift, when I heard this song, I joked there would be 100 fics named this and you know what I played myself)

Five years was a long time.

Byleth couldn't fathom it. It was just a blink to her. Five years later, she was still twenty, or twenty-one, or some fuzzy age around there. She had the same haircut somehow, the same ragged edge to her nails, the same memories. Her memories told her that last week, she was in the fully intact dining hall sharing a meal with Lysithea and Annette, who both eagerly chattered the whole meal away once they got on the topic of spells.

In reality, last week Byleth was dead, or something like it.

She didn't recognize Claude at first. He was regal and his boyishness—while it was still there—had retreated behind some battle-worn part of him. She barely recognized her other students, and she only did because she was more primed to meet them and their hair color made them easy to pick out in the dark. As they cleared out the last of the thieves in Garreg Mach, her Deer stood out like a rainbow.

She'd say that she missed them, but to her, it was only just yesterday when she saw them last. And today they were... the same, and yet very, very_ not__._ And not just in their hairstyles; they were _responsible_ now. Most were her age or older. They all still treated her like she was their professor though, which was sweet.

Five years was a quarter of their lives. Five years was five times longer than the span she'd known them. Five years upheaved every inch of Fódlan's political landscape. Five years—

Changed everything but her.

::::

Byleth could tell Claude was testing her.

He didn't trust her. He said he trusted her and he _wanted_ to trust her—but he didn't trust her. His smiles were cagey, his questions were too many, and he tried to get away with his prodding by saying, "I'm making sure your skills aren't rusty," but she _knew_.

She understood on some level—falling asleep for five years wasn't exactly the best explanation for her disappearance. But after weeks of this behavior, it was getting to be, frankly, bullshit.

She'd become the Alliance's mascot, which was the whole reason they were fighting under the banner of the Crest of Flames. Claude had laid all his plans at her feet, then buried her in them so she couldn't escape. She had to be visible, he said, to rally the Knights of Seiros to help. She had to lead battles that were twice as big as the biggest ones she'd ever been part of, he said, because no one else had her mind for strategy. And she had an inkling he was going to make her be the face of much, much more.

Byleth would have helped anyway, but she would have at least liked to know details in advance. Claude cultivated the moments and audiences when he revealed his plans in ways that made it difficult to refuse without seeming petty. She wouldn't have refused, but she would have liked to feel like she had the choice to.

She would have liked if he trusted her enough to say yes.

Byleth was standing in the doorway of his dormitory when she told Claude, "If you don't trust me, please just say so."

He had been slowly rising from his chair, but he now snapped up straight, mouth creased in a frown. "What? Of course I do."

"Trusting me is not the same as wanting me on your side because I'm useful."

Claude studied her closely, green eyes wide, yet under that shrewd gaze, Byleth felt all the more distant. _She_ hadn't changed, but _he_ was five years a stranger. "Do you think that I'm just using you?" he murmured.

He'd always been a schemer. Byleth liked that about him, even if it used to make him a brat; life wasn't fair enough to mind the rules, and it made for a good time when she was in on his tricks. But the trust of an ally wasn't a game and she didn't like being played, so when she said, "You haven't said that you aren't," her note of contempt was audible.

His lips parted in shock. "I promise I'm not."

She didn't believe him. She knew Claude's lying face as well as he knew hers; that twitch of his mouth was the same tell he always had. Again, she understood—he was leader of the Alliance now, and he couldn't necessarily mind her feelings when he had to mind _everything_ on this side of Fódlan and had so many other relationships to cultivate.

Still, it hurt. And few things hurt her.

She walked away wordlessly.

"Byl—"

The sound of her half-formed name jarred her steps. Claude sighed. So it hurt him too, then, to treat her like a piece on Fódlan's chessboard. But maybe that was the sort of sacrifice one made in war.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't realize—I didn't mean to take advantage of your return like this."

"You did, though."

He didn't reply.

::::

They were both good at acting—Claude, due to his natural charm, and Byleth, due to her ability to slip into an unfaltering dead-eyed stare. Nothing really shifted in their behavior, or at least, everyone was too polite to point it out. They had bigger things to worry about, like the Imperial forces encroaching upon them.

War had a way of fucking everything up.

The closer a relationship was, the more complicated it was. Byleth considered that maybe there was a silver lining to their stiffness. She didn't have to worry about letting any impartiality influence her decisions in the strategy room or battlefield. She had, of course, noticed during the last few weeks' worth of meetings and meals that Claude had grown roguishly handsome and twice as charismatic, which made him four times as dangerous; not to her, necessarily, but she was already accommodating to a fault sometimes, at least when it came to matters that weren't life or death. He stood too close and winked too much, but he'd always done that, and now Byleth knew that it was his way of distracting people while he set his schemes in motion. A professional ploy. Nothing more.

That is, until Hilda invited herself to tea one day.

"Look, whatever's happening with you and Claude is not my business," she said, though her active gesturing seemed to imply it was, "but if there's anything I can do to… fix? Take the edge off? This weirdness? I'm all ears."

Byleth coughed lightly into her cup. "We just need some time to get familiar again."

It was a little bit of a theme across everyone, really. Like Ignatz and Raphael catching up with the news in their respective families and Raphael wondering why Ignatz never visited despite his invitations; or Cyril being shy around Lysithea and tearing through entire reams of the monastery's supply of paper to write her a letter but none of them came out good enough; or even Hilda enjoying Marianne's fresh confidence a teensy much and was pushing new fashions onto the girl too aggressively. Change took time—to happen and to get used to.

Hilda bit her lip, twiddling her thumbs as if considering her words. "Claude… cares a lot about you. And honestly? He's grown up so much since our school days. He doesn't even spike Lorenz's tea anymore, and Lorenz has gotten _ten_ times as exasperating now that he has responsibilities, too. _I'm_ tempted to do it—um, but I won't, of course."

Byleth had to smile. "How unusually gracious of you."

"Hah, well, I've already told both of them they're idiots." Hilda flapped her hand. "Especially Claude. He's no fun moping—that's why I came to talk to you in the first place. You really got to him, Professor."

"Moping?" Claude from five years ago loved to complain. But the one she knew now? She can't imagine him moping like a boy again.

"Like I said, he cares a lot. He just… doesn't know how to show it. Or at least, he thinks he has to be this… _strong, unshakable Leader Man._ But he pulled together the Alliance, so he's doing something right."

Ah, not knowing how to express something—"I know how that feels."

"_Whaaat?_ Are you always pretending to be strong and unshakable, too?"

"Well, no." It was different. Byleth had always been this way—muted in her emotions and even her fear, which was what made her such a terror on the battlefield. But ever since her dad died, it was like there was a fissure in her somewhere letting new feelings sneak through. She knew because those feelings always hurt, and she wondered if everyone else always really felt that way. It was a nuisance, more than anything else—nothing she couldn't handle—but it was a part of her now. A part she didn't want to share with the wider world yet. "Sometimes I am, I suppose."

"Huh. I never would have guessed."

::::

Lorenz put his fist down at the roundtable. "Putting all our faith in our professor is _not_ a strategy."

Nodding, Byleth crossed her arms. "I'm flattered, Claude, but that _isn't_ a plan."

"It always works though," Claude muttered. He blew out a puff of breath that made that lock of hair in front of his face flutter. "Look, I do have a plan that will keep both House Gloucester appeased and give us control of the Great Bridge of Myrddin, but… I need to get responses back from pretty distant territories. Messengers are taking awhile."

"Care to share where?" Lorenz asked.

"I don't want to get hopes up…"

"_Aha_—you have _no_ plan."

They'd already gone through this part of the argument once before, so at this point, the meeting was going in circles. By the end of it, nothing was decided, but it was implied they were at least relying on Byleth again. It wasn't unreasonable; she was part-goddess, after all. And secretly... she could turn back time if her strategies went awry. No one knew the full grasp of her power, not even her.

Byleth could handle the fights, but the way people were making her out to be a big, damn hero to fall back on—that made her the most uncomfortable. What would happen if she was gone one day? Or worse, if she was turned into one of those beasts, like Miklan? And it wasn't as if she understood a lick of the kind of political maneuvering that could bring disparate lands together, the kind of magic Claude had, and that was just as important. He gave himself too little credit on that front. She found out recently how many lines of communication he kept with allies around the Alliance and beyond, and the number alone made her head spin.

After the roundtable, she stopped by Jeralt's office just to glance in. A pang struck her chest at first sight. The books, the dusty furniture, the shut curtains—all was in order and he was still dead, just like the last time she looked. Feeling tears, she reached up, but it was a phantom wetness around her eyes.

Breathing in, then out, the moment passed.

Footsteps approached. She looked up. Claude stood in the doorway.

He tugged at his collar, something sheepish creeping up his expression. "I didn't… put too much on your shoulders again today, did I?"

She shook her head. "It's fine."

"I hope you're not just saying that." When he stepped into the light, the bags under his eyes came into relief. His hair was messier than usual—one side sticking up a little as if he'd slept on it funny.

Without thinking, Byleth licked her thumb and reached over to flatten it.

She smiled as Claude reddened. "Er—" It was so easy to disarm him if he was even the slightest bit off-guard. He ran a hand through his hair. "Was it like that during the whole meeting?"

"It's not as bad as when you'd come to class late and the whole right side would be sticking up straight."

"I would hope I've matured for the better," he said, smoothing down his clothes as well, which were terribly rumpled.

"Mmm. You used to be a brat."

He grinned. "A charming brat?"

Leaning against the desk, Byleth was glad to settle in easy banter. Like old times, though she'd kept a certain distance before due to her teaching position; now, they were peers and she'd be particularly brutal. "No, more like the kind I liked to use for target practice."

"Ouch. And now?"

"You're the clever leader of the Alliance. Or I hope you are. From Lorenz's complaints, it sounded like you haven't been doing the best job."

"And you believe him?" Claude clutched his chest as convincingly as if an arrow struck him. "You wound me, my friend."

She arched a brow. "Aren't you concerned about the opinions of your lords?"

"I—ergh—yeah… it's this damn war. If this were peacetime, everything would be different."

"You should share more of your work with the others; it would allow you some rest. Hilda, for example—she's always free and she has her own talent for manipulation. I'm sure it translates to diplomacy."

"Hilda? You couldn't get her to work if—"

"She'd surprise you." These were things she could have only learned from her time as a professor. "And you should talk to Lorenz more. Being dodgy with allies, like we're not already on your side… that's how you erode trust."

Sighing, Claude hung his head. "You're right," he said quietly. "You always are."

Byleth frowned. She wasn't _always_. And she hadn't realized how low Claude had gotten if he was already like this. "I know you're trying your best."

"My best doesn't matter if it's not enough."

She grasped his gloved hand. "It's enough."

When Claude looked up at her, her chest hurt all over again. Appearances side, there was a weariness and longing in his gaze as they met hers. As if that hope he carried outwardly like a sun was actually a flickering flame at the heart of him, and he was desperately fanning it alive.

"I'm always scared, can you believe it?" he murmured. "Sometimes I want to run away from everything. I'd just have to leap over Fódlan's Throat and be safe. I used to run away from the battlefields when they got too heated, you know… thinking that maybe it was a mistake coming to Garreg Mach to study."

She never knew this. "What changed that?"

His brows furrowed, as if she was asking something obvious. Then gratefully, Claude smiled—a real smile that lit his eyes. "You arrived."

::::

Tensions eased between her and Claude, but not quickly enough, so Byleth did what she always did when two people needed to work through awkwardness: she assigned themselves a joint task.

"Cleaning rubble, though?" Claude made a face. "C'mon, if we can't do a tournament, can't we at least do flying exercises instead?"

Crouched among the piles of broken brick, Byleth stiffened. "Marianne and Hilda are doing them."

"I thought they did them yesterday."

"Um, Cyril and Seteth are, then?" She rubbed her itching nose but only managed to get dirt on her face.

Snickering, Claude bent down to brush it off with his thumb. It was only a gentle swipe along her cheek, but it tipped her off balance, and she had to put her other hand on the ground to keep steady. Oddly clumsy of her.

Still up close, he squinted. "Wait, that's your lying face. Why would you... are you afraid of flying?"

"No," she blurted too loudly. Her stomach dropped as the widest grin known in Fódlan's history stretched Claude's cheeks, and she knew exactly what he was going to say next.

"Prove it."

So half an hour later, Byleth was climbing on the poor waiting wyvern's saddle. She wasn't lying; she _wasn't_ afraid of flying. She was afraid of _falling_. Flying was fine—probably even amazing, not that she'd done it before. The _falling_ part was the dangerous part. She fell down a cliff once, so frankly she had a right to feel this way.

She was also _very_ clumsy that day, as she accidentally kicked the base of the wyvern's wings sliding onto the saddle.

"_Skraww!_" The wyvern lurched forward. Byleth grabbed around its neck, faceplanting into it.

On the ground, Claude's eyes widened. "Easy! You'll spook him—_Byleth!_"

The wyvern reared up. Next thing Byleth knew, her back hit the ground and a mass of scaly limbs spun overhead.

"Easy there, boy—_urgk!_" Claude fell skidding on his bottom, red gash on his arm. The wyvern snorted and sat down, ears flattened.

Byleth crawled over. "Oh no. I'm so sorry—"

"It's just a scratch." But his teeth were clenched, and he grimaced as she took his arm.

"It's my fault that you're hurt. This shouldn't have happened." Taking the knife from her hip, she slashed off a length of her sleeve and tied it around the wound to apply pressure.

"I'm more worried about the emotional damage you gave"—Claude peeked at the collar around the wyvern's neck—"Flappy? _Really?_ Uh, Flappy here."

"I just—got startled." She helped him up and looked toward the stables to see if Marianne was nearby; otherwise, she supposed they could walk all the way to Manuela's for a healer.

"Next time, how about I teach you to fly on Zahra?"

Byleth whirled back around to him. Claude was already grinning through the pain; was he just putting on a brave face again? Although when she looked down, the scratch really wasn't that bad at all and she was probably overreacting. Somehow, _she_ was more banged up after that incident. "I'd prefer if your wyvern didn't come to hate me as well," she coughed.

"It'll take more than a kick from a scaredy-cat. C'mon, I'll sit right behind you. She's strong enough to carry both of us."

::::

The next day, true to his word, Claude hoisted Byleth up onto Zahra, who was a mountain of patience as Byleth scrambled for a hold, and Claude pushed himself up and seated himself behind her. He fixed the reins in front, the scruff along his jaw scratching her cheek as he reached forward. Against her back, she thought she could feel his chest hammering through his shirt.

"Does it hurt? Your heart?" She tried to shift in her seat so she could look over her shoulder but bumped into his chin. They hadn't really thought this arrangement through. "It feels like it's trying to escape."

"…Oh." Claude ducked his head. "Heh, you can tell?"

"I think it's getting more insistent."

His arms reaching around her sides tensed up; actually, all of him tensed up. "It can get like that sometimes."

Must be distracting. "For everyone?"

"Yeah. Well, not _all_ the time, but—"

"When?"

He cleared his throat. "Ah… when you're nervous, for example."

"You're nervous?"

"_Hey now, _what's with the interrogation, my friend? _All-right-hold-on-tight!_"

Byleth's stomach lurched as Zahra took off and with a single flap, lifted them above the halls. She clutched Claude's arms with a vice grip. "You did that on purpose!"

His laugh rumbled behind her, his breath a soft breeze against her ear. "That's how all wyverns take flight."

"You barely warned me!" Her vision swam as she looked below. Oh gods. It wasn't the same as when she was high up in a building at all—there was no _ground_ beneath her feet.

"If you admit that you're afraid of flying, I can see what I can do about having Zahra take it slow."

She was trembling worse than Flayn at the sight of fish. There was no way Claude couldn't have noticed. Still—"I am _not_ afraid of flying."

"Oh?" Claude pressed his heel against Zahra's side and the wyvern dove. Byleth shrieked again and she was_ going to kill him once they were at a non-lethal fall height._

"You can relax." His arm snaked around her middle. From his shaking gasps, he was clearly trying hard not to start laughing again. "I got you. Want to take the reins?"

Byleth shook her head vehemently and only pressed herself against him more. She was going to kill him, yes, but he was also the most solid thing here. If she wasn't utterly terrified, it was kind of nice. Being this close with someone, feeling steadied despite the lack of footing—a metaphor for the whole damn war. She looked at where her hand was gripping now—her fingers were laced through his, where he held her around her waist. When had that happened?

"Claude." Her voice was tiny.

"Hmm?" When she didn't say anything further, she could feel him frown into her hair. "Something wrong?"

Something was _extremely_ wrong. Well—wrong wasn't the right word.

So, maybe Byleth was a little afraid of flying. But she was _definitely_ afraid of falling.

There was the matter of the _other_ cliff—the precipice in her heart that she only knew by its gaping emptiness, by the fact that she didn't know what lay below; all she gleaned from gossip while growing up was that if she let certain feelings tumble down that way, there was no climbing back to the familiar. Falling in love was a permanent trip down, and while love could fade, you'd always bear the scar.

And when she tilted her head backwards to glance up at Claude, there was no mistaking the edge of that cliff crumbling away. Things hadn't felt familiar for awhile with him, besides the awkwardness and his stature and the neat cut of his clothes. She first thought the war pressing around them was making her feel claustrophobic, but it was only ever around Claude. It was his trust that she held at the highest standard, his hand she wanted to hold sometimes, his smile that warmed her inside-out.

She'd seen bloody battles and she'd driven her sword into the guts of monsters without batting an eye, but the particular new terror emerging in her—combined with the knowledge that a hundred feet of empty air currently separated her from the ground—was overwhelming enough to make Byleth faint.

Five years changed a lot.


	2. love is worth the fight

But there was a war to win.  
  
So when Byleth woke to a frantic Claude promising he'd never insist on flying lessons again, she didn't tell him that she fainted due to a reason much closer to her heart. He deserved a little medicine for his tricks, anyway—let him squirm.  
  
When Gwendal's troops surrounded Claude's wyvern at Ailell and he got caught in a rain of arrows, she steeled herself from turning back time before she could check if he was alive. Even though the thought of seeing his body nearly made her retch. A divine pulse would take a lot out of her; she had to believe that Claude had gotten stronger, faster, as much as he'd gotten luckier. When the dust cleared and he sat waving on the ground with a bloody grin, surrounded by fallen enemy soldiers, she held back the crippling surge of relief as she ordered Leonie to hold down the area while Marianne made her way there.  
  
When Claude divulged his true plan of distracting Gloucester troops to Lorenz, like Byleth had advised, she didn't think further about the soft smile he gave her that sought something of her beyond approval; nor the talk they had after everyone left the room. "It's hard to imagine my dreams without you," Claude said breathlessly. If she felt like humoring that strange new side of herself that felt _giddy_ of all things, she'd say it sounded more like a confession than an expression of gratitude. Her head spun enough to hurt.  
  
When Judith joined them at Garreg Mach, Byleth resisted asking every question about Claude's younger years that popped into her head unbidden. Her Deer were just as curious; Hilda was the only one brazen enough to pepper Judith with the questions while Lorenz screeched about how the Hero of Daphnel probably had much better stories to tell. Judith was midway in regaling about the time she found Claude bawling—she thought someone had died, the boy never cried—when Claude came barreling in with a "_He-ey, I need to borrow her for a sec,_" and hustled Judith out.  
  
(Byleth later found out, when she asked Claude privately, that the incident happened when he was traveling as a kid and he didn't realize he'd gotten lost. When he came back to what he thought was an empty camp, he thought the caravan had left him behind intentionally. "It was silly," he said, but he spoke of his childhood in such detached terms sometimes, she wondered how much it really affected him. If it had happened to her, she would have assumed something had befallen the mercenary crew; but when it happened to Claude, he assumed he wasn't wanted.)  
  
While going over numbers regarding the new troops and supplies, Byleth did ask Judith about how Claude was handling Alliance affairs.  
  
"The problem is he only has half a mind on it," Judith said. "I know his dreams go beyond Fódlan, and he just wants this war to be over so he can get to them—but the present is as important as the future. You can't get to the latter without the former." She smiled. "He's gotten better though—I'd credit that to you."  
  
Byleth waved a quick hand. "I don't actually know much about governing—"  
  
"No, no, his focus. His… thoughtfulness. It's easy to get tunnel vision in this line of work." She shook her head. "But enough about Claude. I'd like to know, if it's not too forward: what are your sights set on once the war is over?"  
  
It seemed like a far way off still. "I'd think just like to know peace again." Byleth was honed for battle, but she wasn't prepared for the weariness of war. Every day—another smoking village, a new funnel of refugees, more fretful news from the borders.  
  
"You're the face of these efforts though. I hope you understand that people will continue looking toward you for leadership. I trust you'll do well—I've seen your conduct on and off the battlefield—but I hope you're aware of what you've gotten yourself into."  
  
Honestly, she didn't know. But she nodded, because she didn't want to invite doubt—on her _or_ Claude. Yes, she had begrudged him for making her shoulder those duties, but she didn't want _other_ people to blame him for it. It was the right choice, ultimately, and they stitched their trust back together since.  
  
_After the war._ The rebuilding, peacekeeping, negotiating… She could hardly imagine the efforts would ever be over. Maintaining that new world would be a fight of a different kind, the kind she didn't know how to navigate instinctively.  
  
But if the dawn could rise on a smokeless horizon morning after morning—it would be beautiful.

::::

Her tactics became more conservative as battles drew out over burning lakes and forts that put Alliance forces at every disadvantage. Byleth wasn't up for flying lessons just yet, but she brushed up on her riding skills with Leonie so that she could go further afield. She did much of the scouting, especially when fog hindered their vision; she'd rather put herself in danger than her Deer.  
  
It was only a matter of time before a close call got too close.  
  
The arrow came from behind and caught Byleth in the side. She screamed, body twisting in pain—_wasn't lethal, wasn't lethal_, she repeated to herself as black spots dotted her vision—and she struck the swordsman in front of her down. She turned to slice a second incoming arrow out of the air.  
  
Imperial reinforcements had arrived.  
  
Among the fresh soldiers were a row of ballistas aimed in the other direction. They divided her from the rest of her army; anyone coming to her aid would be quickly speared.

Breathing hard, Byleth scrabbled for a vulnerary as new battalions bore down. She could make it. It would be close, but she could take them.  
  
A white wyvern zipped into the sky nearby.  
  
The vulnerary spilled from her lips. There was only one wyvern that color, one rider that bold. But even _Claude _couldn't avoid every ballista. He should know to stay in formation with Hilda and Seteth and the other wyvern riders so they could confuse the enemy, take them down one by one. He was flying straight for her—he was coming for _her_—"Don't!" Byleth shouted, as if he could hear her from this distance.  
  
He dodged the first ballista shot. But there were two more incoming, one aimed for the wyvern, another aimed at him—

Blood rained from the sky.  
  
"Claude!" she choked. The world reeled before she even reached her arm out fully as time turned against its natural flow.  
  
Strength drained from the other half of her, pulling her backwards through a wrong-colored world. Like peeling skin. Breathing sap. She still had to go further back. Or else _Claude—_

Her concentration snapped. Time steadied. Byleth fell to her knees, arrow still biting her side. She hadn't rewound enough. The white wyvern was in the sky, about to be struck again. No—_no_—what if it was like when her dad died? What if she couldn't—?  
  
The second shot went right over Claude. He banked hard, unlike last time; the third shot missed him, too.  
  
Byleth nearly collapsed in relief. She reached for her goddess half, still felt its stir of unearthly power. It was there. Just a slip, then.

Arrows whistled by her. Remembering where she was, she drew her sword again.  
  
It was a much easier fight with Claude tackling the rear. After clearing out the reinforcements, he flew up to her and she ran over furious—horrified—_something_—as worry sparked in his gaze. The first words out of her mouth weren't thanks or praise or anything grateful, but instead, "You can't _do_ that! You would've died!"  
  
He chuckled haltingly. "I clearly didn't."  
  
_You did. You just didn't know. _  
  
"Are you—?"  
  
"I'm fine. Don't do that ever again." When Byleth turned away she knew he was confused and she should explain, but everything hurt, from her body to her heart to her throbbing skull, and it would be ridiculous if she fainted on the battlefield from _this_.  
  
Claude was still watching her when she glanced over her shoulder, his frown settling deeper.  
  
_"Go!"_ she ordered. They still had to force a surrender from the Imperial commander.  
  
Reluctantly, he flew ahead.

::::

"I thought Claude was out of his mind when I saw him do that." Hilda rummaged through the supply chest for bandages as Marianne finished up with closing Byleth's wounds. "You're all great, but I have to be honest: I would never risk my own neck to save someone like that."  
  
"The chances weren't the best. Two dead is worse than one, so it's not a bad call. But… you'd be surprised at what you'd do, Hilda." Byleth had seen the girl rush to Marianne's aid once to her folly; while Marianne could have reasonably repelled against the enemy mage's thunder magic, it pierced right through Hilda's armor and Byleth had to wind back time to save her then. She didn't forget the stench of burning flesh for a week.  
  
She herself had first learned how to use the divine pulse when she saved Edelgard five years ago, when the Emperor was just a student. Ironic, now.  
  
Byleth peeled off her torn shirt and undershirt. It was the last set she brought and it was late to search for a village that might have supplies. "Could I borrow a change of clothes?" she asked the girls.  
  
"Of course—" Marianne began.  
  
"No, let me." Hilda jumped up, patting Marianne's elbow on her way out, to which the other girl only replied, "Oh, _Hilda_," as if there were some joke just now.  
  
A few minutes later, Hilda burst back into the medical tent holding up a cream-colored top. "Here you go! It's not mine, so it might be a little big, but loose clothes are better if you're injured, right, Marianne? So the wound can heal?"  
  
"Um, right," and Marianne giggled as Hilda hooked an arm around hers.  
  
"Thank you," said Byleth, eying them both and smiling slightly. They were up to something no good, all right, but at least they could still joke around in these rough times. "You should both get some rest. It was a long battle."  
  
"We will. You too!"  
  
The tent flap closed behind them as they left. The shirt was already half-buttoned when Byleth slipped it over her head. The linen was cool against her skin and soft—well-worn. It smelled faintly like a tea she couldn't place at the moment and familiar in more ways than one. Rolling up the wide sleeves, she stepped outside into the cool night and walked directly into Claude whose jaw dropped nearly as fast as it snapped back up.  
  
"Oh—" Byleth winced immediately. She meant to speak to Claude earlier—apologize and explain her behavior during the battle—but the aftermath had been a blur. "Hey. Thank you for… I shouldn't have yelled at you."  
  
"Um." He was still gaping. She wasn't sure if he heard anything she just said.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"That's—shirt—the _shirt_—"  
  
Byleth looked down, frowning. It was a perfectly normal—_oh_. "This is _your_ shirt." Behind her, she swore she heard Hilda giggling. "Sorry, I didn't know. Is this a problem? I can take it off." She gripped the shirt at the collar, pulling it up.  
  
Claude's next breath came out as a wheeze, and if they weren't standing alone (not including Hilda, now cackling madly), she would have thought someone just punched him in gut. "_Nooo_, it's fine. K-keep it on." He let out a long slow breath. "Excuse me for, uh, just a moment."  
  
Head down, _very much not looking at her,_ Claude marched stiffly behind the medical tent as Byleth stared after him. She could just barely strain to hear him hiss, "You couldn't have dressed her in, oh, I don't know, _anything_ else?"  
  
"She doesn't fit in any of the other girls' shirts," she heard Hilda reply. "As I'm sure you've noticed, the professor is kind of _well-equipped_ up there."  
  
"_So you put her in one of _my_ shirts?_"  
  
"You're _welcome_."  
  
Claude returned to Byleth red-faced, which made a blush creep along her own cheeks. "Ah, just had to have a word with Hilda." Clearing his throat, he gestured to a trail that led down to a lake. "I was going to ask... walk with me? I don't think I can sleep for awhile."  
  
Byleth nodded, falling in step with him down the muddy trail that led away from the camp. "I don't know if you heard me earlier—"  
  
"I did, I—you don't have to apologize." Running a hand through his scruffy hair, freshly washed and half of it falling over his eyes, he smiled wanly. "It was a stupid move and I could've died. I was just terrified that you might..."  
  
"I would have died protecting people I care about," Byleth said stoically. "A worthy and perhaps necessary end, the kind that thousands of other soldiers have met. But the Alliance can't lose you right now. It's unstable enough as it is."  
  
He steps stuttered. "And I can't lose _you_."  
  
"Yes, I'm the face of this campaign. The bearer of the Crest of Flames that's our banner. I know."  
  
"It's not that. You're—you're dear to me."  
  
Of course. "Once a Deer, always a Deer."  
  
"Huh? No, not—" Claude frowned, stopping on the path. He laughed suddenly. "Not _D__eer_. Dear. Precious. You're precious to me. When you came back… it changed everything." He looked away; was he still blushing? "I know I wasn't the best to you when you returned. I was afraid you weren't real. I was so preoccupied with thinking you were a second chance against the Empire that I forgot—well, just about everything else. But you were so much more. You were the hope I didn't know I was holding onto. Seeing you—felt like fate."  
  
"Oh," Byleth breathed.

Quiet stilled between them. This was bad, she thought. Whatever this was, this was bad because it was _distracting_. Suddenly, all she could think about was how the breeze rustled through the trees and how if she let herself sway forward with the wind, she would be right up against the warmth of his body. It wasn't like training. It wasn't like on his wyvern. They were in sleep clothes, she was in _his shirt_, they were bungling half the things they were saying, she nearly lost him today, and he nearly lost her—even _she_ knew where this was going.  
  
But if she let herself fall, everything would change. You didn't give yourself more things to lose in war. Certainly not more variables on the battlefield, and what was more temperamental than a heart? She'd been learning plenty of that recently.

And even if—_when—_they made it through this war, Judith's words echoed: _his dreams go beyond Fódlan_. Would she even follow Claude's path then?  
  
The dappled moonlight was bright in his green gaze, and a lump grew in her throat as his hands twitched at his side—toward her?—but dropped again. "Byleth—"  
  
"I can turn back time," she blurt.  
  
It took a second for her interruption to sink in. His open mouth twisted into a different, equally surprised shape. "Come again?"  
  
"A little. It's complicated." The tension broke but, unsure if it would stay like that, she jerked her head toward the lake and hastily continued walking. This talk was a long time coming, anyway, and she wasn't the best at timing. On the other hand, maybe this was perfect timing.  
  
A small dock stretched over the water, rippling with the light of the crescent moon. They sat at the end, side-by-side, closer than they needed to, as Byleth described the lengths of her power.  
  
Claude most certainly pretended to understand more than he did of her babbling. "This is the… goddess living inside you?" he said slowly.  
  
"Yes… or she used to. I think she's part of me now. It's different."  
  
"Well, considering I'm not part-goddess myself, I should take your word for it."  
  
She wrung her hands and stared at them in her lap. The blood she'd seen on them, from enemies and friends alike. Some that she washed away. Some that she made sure was never spilled in the first place. "I saw you fall today, Claude," she added quietly. "That's why I reacted that way. I already saw the ballistas hit you. And then I turned back time and it was going to happen again. It's just that they missed you the second time."  
  
A hitch in his breath. "...I see."  
  
Now that the whole truth was out, her mouth was dry and she felt silly. "It doesn't matter now. We won."  
  
"Kind of sounds like it mattered."  
  
Byleth bit her lip. She didn't know what to say anymore. There were all the things she _wanted_ to say if circumstances were different. All the feelings she didn't know how to describe, that she'd explain even worse than her powers.  
  
She felt his fingers thread through her hair. The curve of his arm around her back, steady and warm. The softest pressure clutching her to him. It happened all at once—her crumpling from exhaustion, her face burying in his shoulder as Claude murmured, "It's okay. I know. I _know_." Her sigh came out shaky and a feeling like crying washed over her, and she took his other hand and squeezed it. It wasn't really okay, and it wouldn't be okay until the war was over, because she couldn't lose him either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops this fic got one chapter longer
> 
> hilda: mvp of our maps and my fics


	3. when i break your heart

The worst battle had yet to come: the roundtable with the Alliance Lords.  
  
Byleth hadn't rested a full day in far too long. Training, leading seminars, arguing with Seteth over finances—she managed _one_ appointment of tea with Lysithea, which she bungled by mentioning the strange activity in the monastery at night. (It turned out to be Manuela sneaking back from the pub with her latest date—or, more often, Manuela's latest date trying to sneak away from Manuela.)  
  
And now, on top of all of that, Byleth had to deal with some lords who probably talked too much and did too little. They were mostly good people, but in the few times she had brushed up against politics, it'd been gratingly inefficient. The actual roundtable probably wouldn't be awful; Claude said that she just had to "stand there and look holy." Be a symbol for the Church. The other Alliance lords, unlike Claude, were devout and her presence alone would send a message.  
  
Still, she'd be a fish out of water, and nothing would change that.  
  
And then there was the matter of getting there.  
  
When Byleth lugged her trunk to the stables, Claude was waiting with a saddled-up Zahra, nervous air about him; he was obviously still unsettled by the time she fainted on his wyvern. "We can take an overland carriage instead."  
  
"We can't spare the time," Byleth said flatly. "Flying is four times as fast. Marianne gave me flying lessons and I think I can manage."  
  
"She did? _I_ could have—ah... never mind. Probably lost that privilege for a lifetime or two."  
  
After they lashed her trunk to Zahra, Byleth joined Claude on the saddle and they took off—no dives, no tricks—toward Riegan territory. She still didn't like flying, but she'd gotten used to the feel of it and the bouts of weightlessness had become moderately predictable. And there was Claude behind her, besides.  
  
Once they were out of view from the monastery, she allowed herself to lean back against him; he never minded her closeness, and it'd become a comfort she stole when she could.  
  
"Your heart is... are you sure there's nothing wrong with it?" she asked, eyes closing. His chest was thrumming.  
  
"View's just beautiful," Claude mumbled.

::::

  
  
Most of Claude's trunk contained fancy outfits. He switched from his casual riding clothes to more tailored attire for the roundtable, then to a set of equally close-fitting formalwear for the dinner afterwards that made Byleth flush at first sight. It was apparently possible to forget how handsome he could look. Meanwhile, Byleth had only two sets of plain clean clothes, which Claude claimed were fine, but she didn't _feel_ fine as she sat quiet among the dinner's clinking glasses and high-brow talk.  
  
"This is more tiring than brawling with Raphael for the last drumstick," she groaned when they finally stumbled up the manor stairs to their rooms.  
  
"I can't say that you ever get used to it. But it's work, you know."  
  
Right. Some things you just had to get done. "I still think I should have divine pulsed your last talking point."  
  
Claude made a face. "It wasn't _that_ bad."  
  
"You didn't see the look on Lord Edmund's advisor's face at the mention of Almyra."  
  
"Probably just the poison I snuck into his goblet." He cracked up as her eyes rounded. "Kidding, kidding!"  
  
"I almost wish you weren't," she admitted, stopping outside her door. "I think he was rude to me earlier, but I can't tell." Half the people here had Resting Disdain Face.  
  
"In that case, I have a vial in my pocket. Just say the word." He grinned. "You held up well, though. The lords already respect you immensely. You're a natural leader."  
  
"I don't know about that. I'm not _actually_ leading them."  
  
He sucked in a breath.  
  
She frowned. "What?"  
  
"Huh? Ah… it's nothing."  
  
But Claude's sudden pause nagged at her. Was she _supposed_ to be leading the lords? As the de facto head of the Church, she did hold a kind of authority over them. And as the Leader of the Alliance's highly successful general, she held a different kind of sway. Earlier, she'd been firm about the military needs of their campaign, and she'd seen right through one House's dubious excuse for skimping on their contributions. She didn't have to be deceptive or charming to hold command; she was straightforward and had the results to back her up, and the convenient part about being brutally honest was that she didn't second-guess her words.  
  
Perhaps she should have left the feeling alone, said her goodnight, and let Claude go to his own room, but that thought echoed again: _His dreams go beyond Fódlan. _  
  
Something clicked in her mind, and its implications rushed through her like a shock of ice. The question spilled out before she could reconsider: "Do you... intend to rule Fódlan if we win?"  
  
Claude's lips parted in the slightest surprise. _No way._ No way that she was right. "Er… the truth is… not unless I had to. I'm not an ideal choice, trust me."  
  
"Then, are you setting _me_ up to rule it?"  
  
"I... didn't know who I might hand over the reins to… but then you came back and it seemed like an obvious answer. As Rhea's appointed, you're the highest authority in the church, and Fódlan will be devout for at least the next generation. Not to mention your actual leadership—"  
  
"How long have you planned to do this?" Her voice began to rise, but since she couldn't risk anyone eavesdropping, the words came out as more of a hiss. "When were you going to tell me? Or were you just going to wait until I had no other choice but to take the crown, because you're going to leave?"  
  
He blanched. "How—?" And that was all the answer Byleth needed.  
  
"You really are leaving," she breathed.  
  
In the dim light of the hall, she could only just make out the pinpoint panic in Claude's eyes. He'd gone as rigid as spotted prey, his only movement being the tremble in his chest as he exhaled. She didn't realize that she herself had a vice grip on the doorknob behind her, and when she let go, she could still feel its mark on her palm.  
  
"The war in Fódlan is only half the work I need to do," Claude said finally.  
  
Byleth shook her head. "The work won't end with the war. What about the recovery efforts?"  
  
"You don't need me for that."  
  
"What can you be doing that's more important?"  
  
"Taking my place as King of Almyra."  
  
The words didn't register. "What…?" Was this a joke?  
  
But his expression was sheepish, and his gloved hands twitched with a nervousness. Claude glanced around, then bowed his head closer. "The other half of my bloodline. I'm in line for the throne. The only people who know are Nardel—Nader, actually—Judith and one or two others in this household. If others found out an _Almyran prince_ was in these walls, there would be a second war being fought right now. I _wanted_ to tell you—believe me."  
  
She was really, truly dizzy now. Her mind tried to grind through the facts: a secret prince of a foreign land, and yet the person before her was unmistakably the Claude she's always known. The eager, scheming boy who grew up into a surprisingly earnest leader. Fighting this war for—what? "Then what are your plans? Your allegiances—?"  
  
"The same. After breaking down the walls from this side of Fódlan, I plan to break down the walls from the outside. But that means I need someone I trust leading Fódlan, so we can bring a brighter future for both places—and beyond—together." He reached out toward her. "I hoped that person might be you."  
  
She drew back against the door. "What—what if I said no?"  
  
"Please... don't."  
  
Byleth shook her head, the mess in her mind finally sorting itself out. "That's your big plan? _Please don't?_ I'm not a queen. Why do you want it to be me so badly?" Again, her voice was rising—as a second sucker punch of a thought struck her. "I suppose if you were the King of Almyra... it would be convenient to put a dear friend on the throne, especially one without ruling experience so they can puppet them to their needs."  
  
Frost swept over Claude's expression. "Is that what you really think of me?"  
  
Her hands fisted at her sides. It wasn't. But some petty thing inside of her thrashed and refused to answer directly. What was happening to her? It wasn't like her. Some rational part of her mind knew that she shouldn't be acting out like this, but she so desperately wanted to anyway, like a child's first tantrum.  
  
Besides—how dare Claude pretend the idea never crossed his mind. Something as _simple_ as that would have crossed his mind; it had immediately crossed hers. And Byleth would never think he'd _intend_ to puppet her or use her or betray her like that, but sometimes things just _happened_ that way. Just like how he propped her up to be the face of their campaign. Just like how he kept plans from everyone until the last minute. It was simpler to take these shortcuts. When managing the war was a tangled monster of strings, sometimes an ugly solution kept you sane.  
  
This was why you didn't give yourself things to lose in war.  
  
When Claude stalked off to his own room, Byleth didn't think it was because he was mad. It was more as if he just wanted to preserve whatever trust they had left.

::::

  
  
Byleth barely slept all night.  
  
Claude was missing at breakfast, and she couldn't find him in the spare time she had to search the grounds. When it was time to leave, she finally spotted his bright cape in the courtyard next to Zahra. Claude had the white wyvern's entire snout in his arms as he cooed something at her and fed her a treat.  
  
Claude turned around at Byleth's approach, and she saw at once that his smile didn't reach his eyes.  
  
It was going to be a long, awkward flight back to Garreg Mach.  
  
"What I said yesterday... I'm sorry," she said. "I was angry."  
  
"I understand. It's fine, really." His tone was deceptively light. How could he understand? _She_ didn't understand her own feelings.  
  
Before he could get on the saddle, Byleth took Claude's hand and squeezed it as tightly as she could. It was all she could do to explain herself. He glanced up at her again with that maddeningly false expression that—faltered. Just a little.  
  
This, she could decipher. That shared fear of loss—they had felt it in the midst of battle, but the feeling arrived again on the heels of their argument. The thought of losing each other to war was like a knife in the gut—a straightforward agony. But losing each other to doubt? Was like being split apart at the seams.  
  
Claude folded his fingers with hers so they criss-crossed, and something real tugged at the edge of his mouth. "I'm sorry for not telling you the truth sooner."  
  
"You had your reasons."  
  
They made mistakes, and that _had_ to be okay, whether or not Byleth could go back in time to fix things. The two of them weren't perfect; they shouldn't need to be. Maybe the mistakes they made with each other would scab over and heal imperfectly, but they would heal.  
  
That was what Byleth told herself, anyway.

::::

  
  
With the support of the other lords, they could begin marching into the Empire in earnest. The days overfilled with work and, as necessary as it was, Byleth hated that she and Claude had gotten better at pretending everything was the same, when there were a million conversations they were avoiding.  
  
Every victory brought a peaceful dawn closer, but even victory wore them down as battles grew desperate. More and more often, Byleth had to rewind time to make sure their triumphs wouldn't come at too great of a cost. She felt like she'd experienced the war three times over.  
  
After they recovered from the battle at Fort Merceus, Claude called for a proper feast at the monastery. "We have time to celebrate," he said. "A war isn't won without its people and our whole hearts. Enbarr is our final march. This is it."  
  
They served everyone's favorite meal, including a giant fireball-shaped cake for Lysithea, and they ate themselves silly. Raphael actually got _full_. Hilda gathered everyone for a drinking game by the docks, but Byleth excused herself. She already had a headache; she didn't need to wake up with another one.  
  
She walked back through the dining hall, smiling inwardly at the remaining revelers, then slipped out into the gardens. It was too early to sleep with everyone still celebrating, but she was already unsteady with fatigue.  
  
"Are you all right, my friend?" Claude stood in the orange glow of the dining hall.  
  
"Just tired," she said. The future weighed particularly heavily that night.  
  
The approach of Enbarr reminded Byleth: someone had to lead Fódlan, and they never really decided who. It couldn't be Claude, if he truly meant to become the King of Almyra—still a secret to everyone but her. And while the role could fall to one of the other Alliance Lords, she couldn't imagine a scenario where the land wouldn't be torn apart again. She had the unique position of being the most likely one to unify all corners of Fódlan without further unrest.  
  
She hadn't asked for this responsibility, but there it lay before her, just like the war had.  
  
Since their long-ago argument, she realized she wasn't afraid of Claude manipulating her. She was afraid of being in a position where that was something she had to worry about. A position where it would be her _duty_ to question him. To put a country before him.  
  
But if she must. Then no more doubts. "If you want me to rule Fódlan afterwards, I will," she said.  
  
Claude stepped toward her awkwardly, hand wringing the back of his neck. "We don't have to think about the war or… anything stressful tonight. That's why I called for a celebration."  
  
"I don't know if I can stop thinking about it."  
  
When Claude came near enough to lean against, Byleth let herself fall into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She sighed into his chest as he held her close; these stolen moments were all she needed to recover, even though she felt like she was skirting something dangerous with him every time.  
  
Her eyes grew heavy and her head slipped lower against that sliver of bare skin peeking through the collar of his shirt. "Is this okay?"  
  
"Yeah." Claude sounded quiet. She was probably drifting off.  
  
"Tossed and turned a lot last night," she mumbled as an excuse of sorts. "I get nightmares."  
  
"Me too." He dragged his cape around her, the soft fabric warm and familiar. "Go to sleep. I got you."  
  
Byleth curled into him as his other arm caught her around her waist. She didn't think she could fall asleep standing up, but she must have, because the next thing she knew, she was waking up tucked in her own bed, morning light bright in her eyes.

::::

  
  
Enbarr was the end.  
  
Byleth knew the sight before her, even as she lay on the ground. She'd seen it countless times before: two demonic beasts roaring in the distance, tail slashing trenches into the ground between them and Hubert's circle of mages.  
  
They'd come so close. So, _so_ close.  
  
"You gotta come to," came Claude's strained voice. "We don't have much time."  
  
"It doesn't matter," she muttered helplessly as he pulled her to her feet. Swiping her face with her sleeve, it came back caked with blood and dirt.  
  
He returned her dropped sword with a pause. "How... many times have you gone back?"  
  
She'd lost count. Her chest felt like it was about to shatter in all directions; in the back of her mind, she knew she couldn't use the divine pulse again. But what choice did she have?  
  
"What happens?" Claude pressed, hands on her shoulders to brace her. Fighting raged just over the hills beyond him; they had a few minutes reprieve before it caught up to them.  
  
Byleth rattled off, like so many times before, "You're the only one who can hit the artery of that wounded beast. But the second beast always grabs you off your wyvern. Even when I warn you… it's just too fast…"  
  
"And then?"  
  
"If we don't take out both beasts, we can't safely maneuver to handle Hubert and too many of our units—I estimate four-fifths—will fall before we can bring both down. Leonie and Lorenz and their battalions can usually escape in time. If the beast charges Marianne—and then Cyril—" She squeezed her eyes shut. It was never easy to do math with lives. She could still hear their screams, echoing through the undone time.  
  
Claude's throat bobbed. "But if I go out there and take out that first beast, everyone else survives?"  
  
That question was new among all the timelines she'd been in. The concussion she surely had was jumbling her thoughts, but the way Claude asked the question couldn't be more clear. Everything in her skull thundered as Byleth clutched him, not even regretting how she pressed on the wound on his arm. "You can't."  
  
"That's too many casualties. Our path of retreat is closed, and we still have Edelgard to face," he said, plainly as he would recite history. "And it's _you_ who needs to lead Fódlan."  
  
"Claude, _you can't._"  
  
In a blink, a distant sense of regret left his gaze, and a grin blazed across his face instead. He turned his eyes to the beast. "If I know me—and I do—I probably tried to bank left to dodge that thing before. Oof, it's risky, but if I go low, I can dodge it." His voice had the false ring of a speech, and if Byleth looked closely, she could see the corners of his mouth shaking. Claude knew—he _had to know_ he was flying to his death.  
  
"Claude—" She reached out, but he had already swung back onto his wyvern.  
  
"Don't worry, my friend."  
  
_You should've stayed a coward,_ she thought as he took to the skies.  
  
Once in range of the beast, Claude took the shot. His aim was true; it always was.  
  
The second beast's claw tore through his chest; it always did.  
  
When Claude's body crashed to the ground, Byleth's scream choked in her throat. She pulled at that other half of her and found it spent. No, this couldn't be how it ended.  
  
Soldiers around her scrambled to take care of approaching enemies, but still she focused only inward, reaching deeper into that unfathomable part of herself. She would tear apart time like she'd done so many times before, even if it threatened to tear her own soul.  
  
Something frayed. An edge of time fluttering against its flow. Her chest was searing hot. Splintering to pieces. She held on. Made her choice.  
  
Because she _would_ tear apart her soul for this.  
  
The world spun in opposite color.

::::

  
  
You couldn't be the Beginning and be willing to give up the world for someone.

::::

  
  
_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._  
  
"…take out that first beast, everyone else survives? Hey—your hair—wait, are you crying?"  
  
Byleth blinked. Her cheeks were wet. And her chest hurt in a completely new way, bruised like it had been wrung. She remembered a pain of this scale when her dad died in her arms, but that had felt like a stake being driven into her. This felt like whatever had existed there before had been used up and crumbled.  
  
So she performed some final miracle, Byleth realized. But even that wasn't enough, because it hadn't brought her far back enough in time. As she stared up at Claude, she was falling down a cliff again, down that endless drop in her chest. She would never have enough timelines to accept their fate.  
  
But they had a war to win. The hardest lessons were those learned from loss.  
  
"I know I can't stop you, but—" Her hands hovered about Claude's face, framing his surprise as she neared. Her lips found his in the barest brush. Breath hitching, he reached up, his gloves grazing her cheek as she stepped out of reach. "Take the shot before I stop you," she whispered, casting her eyes downward.  
  
Claude stood rooted. Did he know what was about to happen?

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._  
  
But then his shadow finally moved away, and Byleth heard the flap of wyvern wings.  
  
She didn't watch him fall this time; she couldn't take it.  
  
Seteth's pegasus descended upon the chaos around the fallen beast, bringing Flayn to conduct healing. Around Byleth, the battle raged louder, but the drumming in her ears drowned it out. With how her new heart was faring, she didn't know how anything—goddess or not—could have ever kept it caged.  
  
She wouldn't let Claude die in vain. She knew where she needed to be, where others needed to go.

She shouted orders.  
  
With one monster down, the other fell quickly.  
  
Then Hubert.  
  
Then the palace gates.  
  
The Sword of the Creator was dull in her hands—her use of it lost with her other powers—but Byleth was deadly enough with any blade. Grief became fury, and she became her reputation; little did everyone know, the Ashen Demon was infinitely more vicious with a beating heart. She sliced a path through the palace, until the red, red carpets turned a deeper shade of crimson.  
  
She faced Edelgard alone, drove her to her knees until she yielded.  
  
_"I wanted… to walk with you—"_  
  
Byleth brought her sword down across the Emperor's neck.  
  
The war was over.  
  
Adrenaline drained, she dropped to her knees on the dais, clutching that stained carpet as blood pooled around her fingers. The brutal, peaceful dawn, here at last.  
  
She didn't know how long she knelt there until Hilda came to collect her; she and her axe had been guarding the throne room doors until the other parts of the palace were secure.  
  
The first words out of Hilda's mouth were, "Claude's alive."  
  
Byleth didn't hear the rest. Her lungs heaved a single sob, the flooding relief sapping her last stretches of energy, and she crumpled to the floor.

::::

  
  
Byleth was mortal. If there was any doubt before, the loss of her powers removed it. As her body adjusted to the change, she was exhausted in a way she'd never known and found herself bedridden in a claimed inn somewhere in Enbarr, where the Alliance had set up camp. She only remembered snatches of the following day—healers coming to check on her, ramblings to Judith about the next steps, news about a strange hidden threat.  
  
She woke in the early hours of the morning when a crack of light split the room.  
  
At her doorway stood a slightly hunched figure, his hair a wild mess, his eyes squinting into the dark. Bandages covered him like a second skin and he looked thinner than the man she knew, but she could recognize him in any state.  
  
"Claude?" Byleth rasped. She rose from her bed, legs shaking—half from disuse, half from the sight of him. He was up. He was here. He looked _awful_. But he wasn't a ghost. Her heartbeat began thundering anew. "You should be resting."  
  
Before she even took two steps towards him, Claude had crossed the remaining distance between them and swept her up in his arms, and he was kissing her.  
  
Every vein in her body roared aflame; whatever strength she lacked came rushing back. He clutched her, fist in her sleep-tangled hair. She was clinging just as fiercely, like they would never have a chance like this again. Maybe they wouldn't; she never felt time this keenly until they broke apart with a ragged gasp and she thought that was the last of it.  
  
When Byleth nosed in for a second kiss, it was sweeter. Gentler. She knew the shape of his mouth better. Knew where they patched him up and where the bump of his scars were. She ran a hand up the rough bandage along his neck, up behind his ear, and brought him closer with an eager murmur.  
  
They broke off again when Claude winced—she must have struck an injury—but he caught her lips again. "It's okay," he mumbled against her mouth. "Don't—stop." So she didn't.  
  
She kissed his jaw. He kissed her neck. His breath skimmed her skin and a delightful buzz coursed through her; whether it was because of her beating heart or because of him, she wanted more of it. Why did they ever spend time apart, doing anything but this? How could they have been so stupid? They nearly didn't _have_ this. In another timeline, this would have just been a dream.  
  
Stopping to breathe, Byleth rested her forehead against his and blushed under his gaze, so openly adoring. Had Claude always looked at her like that? "I... can't turn back time anymore," she said, always the one to fracture these moments.  
  
"I know. I knew when this changed color." He brushed her hair back from her face. "Your eyes, too."  
  
"But you still..."  
  
"I had to." He kissed her again, as if to quiet her.  
  
"But then I can't save you."  
  
Another kiss. "I had to."  
  
"But you could've… you can't _do_ that—"  
  
He only kissed the tears from her eyes as Byleth fumbled to find his hands. She placed his palm flat against her beating chest. A note of surprise displaced his next breath.  
  
"How does it feel?" he asked.  
  
"Hurts." She brought his knuckles to her lips. "Does it always?"  
  
He uncurled his hand and cupped her cheek. "Here and there."  
  
Their bodies sought each other again. Before long, they were tangled on her bed, despite Byleth's weak protests that Claude should get back to the healers. Not that she ever let go of him to give him the option.  
  
But they were war-worn, even if they were in love, and sleep soon claimed them as the thin light of dawn crept through the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **ART ART ART!** smallestbrown drew the last scene of this chapter ;v; you can see it here on **[twitter](https://twitter.com/smallestbrown/status/1191847569082769409)**!!
> 
> *officially yeets canon out the window*
> 
> the 'claude sacrifices himself' scene was the FIRST scene I wrote out of this whole fic, this entire fic spawned from it, and finally I get to post it ahahah. This chapter was emotions all the way through, hope it was worth it :'D now we can have some mid-relationship stuff before they face Nemesis.


	4. ultraviolet morning light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god have I not updated since october IM SORRY 
> 
> as far as misc canon divergence, I am squishing the nemesis battle for the sake of Single Action Scene

Time marched forward like how it did for everyone else.

She felt it in every twist of muscle. In the gusts tangling her blue hair and the steady beat of her heart. How strange to lose one part of herself only to rediscover another. The goddess had been a second skin of a companion, a duty shaped into armor. She had given up part of herself to make space for that other soul.

Now, she was all Byleth. Only Byleth. 

The soldiers and healers she'd fought alongside made their own guesses of what had happened to their general-soon-queen—whispers of _stress_ and _strange enemy magic_ and how they'd seen things like this before. To her dear Deer, Byleth confided the truth about her change in appearance. The chaos of organizing a newborn Fódlan spared her and Claude little time, but in the quiet after celebrations, she told them the plans of her coronation. Claude announced his departure to Almyra.

"Almyra?" Hilda echoed from her perch on the dining table. "But I thought you and the Professor… never mind."

"How long will you be gone?" Leonie asked.

Claude rubbed the back of his neck. "Hard to say." He was still healing from his injuries, and his voice rasped from too much bedrest. 

Byleth broke from her side-conversation with Alois. "Claude has important work there. I know he'll be back as soon as he can," she said, as if it were nothing to worry about.

Rhea knew what happened at once when Byleth met with her. 

From her bed, she reached toward Byleth, her long sleeves billowing to the floor. "So you have lost your connection with the Goddess." 

Byleth flinched at Rhea's touch but didn't draw away. The Archbishop looked at her with such mourning in her gaze, like she was looking at a ghost instead of flesh. Like the only part of her that mattered was gone. For an angry second, Byleth tensed her sword hand and a distant-blown fear swept into her chest: was she no one without her divine strength and powers? Of course she was—_she had to be_—but with her impending coronation and the thousands of eyes upon her, every flicker of doubt seemed sharp-edged.

A warm touch smoothed down her back. Claude had opted to stay by the doorway when Byleth approached but now he stood beside her. "Rhea." He spoke her name like a warning. "The time for secrets is over. What danger are we facing?" 

Reaching behind her back, Byleth clasped his hand.

Rhea finally told them about Those Who Slither in the Dark—the history of them, anyway; she knew little about the state of the enemy now. Everyone who'd been at Fort Merceus saw that at the very least, the shadowy figures had technology that could level a city. How could they fight that? Byleth never went into battle thinking she'd lose but she had no crested sword, no time on her side, and had no idea, really, what she was up against.

Her heart was racing by the time she escaped Rhea's room for air. Claude wasn't far behind. Byleth hugged her arms as her skin buzzed with a feeling she couldn't control—_fear_, she realized, overcoming her. "I don't know why a heartbeat makes everything more terrifying. Why am I scared? I shouldn't be—I didn't used to be—" She stared at her empty palms, at the wisps of blue hair that fell in front of her face. "People look at me differently. They know I've lost something. They used to look at me like I was strange, but now…"

Claude took her hands. His thumbs pressed upon her wrists where pulse beat. "A goddess didn't lead us on the battlefield. You did."

"I don't _feel_ the same." She was a symbol. The example she led was paramount. She needed to be strong and here she was trembling.

"You're not alone." 

"So we all fall together?"

Knuckles brushing her cheek, Claude tucked her hair behind her ear. "If we have to."

  
::::

  
They planned for an attack on Shambhala in two months. Many of those who had stayed in Garreg Mach during the war made brief visits home; the war was officially over, even if the fighting wasn't. They also needed the weeks to round up a fresh wave of armies.

Byleth remained at the monastery; the only family she had to visit was already there. She placed a fresh bouquet on Jeralt's grave once weekly, using the flowers she grew in the greenhouse.

After a quick flight to Riegan territory, Claude joined her and they fell into routine again: organizing the offensive by day, mapping out the ruling system for Fódlan's future by night. As much as Shambhala was the present threat, they had to plan for the afterwards.

They had to have an afterwards to hope for.

"I'd like to show you Almyra," Claude said more than a few times, even though they both knew her coronation had to happen as soon as possible, and there wouldn't be time.

And Byleth would always say, "I can't wait to visit," as if it were inevitable, and she mostly believed it.

The more time she spent with Claude, the more she wanted; there was surely a honeymoon period to relationships, but Byleth didn't know how it could fade, not when every second felt fleeting, counted by the beating in her chest. She would be working and hear footsteps, and soon his face would be buried in her hair, then in the crook of her neck, and a contented sigh would loose from them both as their bodies settled against each other.

A year ago, she never would have guessed that one of her favorite times of day would be the afternoons when Claude gave her flying lessons. Just them, Zahra, and the skies—sometimes, the stars and the moon, too—the rest of the world far away. With each soaring dive, Byleth started to understand the different tempos of her heart. How the rhythm for fear sometimes overlapped with thrill and nervousness. 

(During her first days with her new heart, she had thought something was wrong because the beats were so slow. "Yours are never that slow," she had told Claude, and he nearly choked laughing.

"Aha, it just so happens that around _you_…")

When her heart beat too loudly, she'd find Claude just to kiss him. She only wanted a moment, but moments always drew out, their hands daring a little further with each quickened breath. It became a game to refuse to let the other have the last kiss—a silly thing that made her inordinately happy—and she felt young in a way she didn't know she yearned for. With fewer people around the monastery, it was tempting to fool around every chance they had. They _did_ fool around every chance they had. 

This once, she ended up in his lap in the locked cardinal room, fingers digging into the jabot around his neck to pull him closer. She yanked it loose to kiss the prize of his throat and moved downwards. She'd become deft at undoing the laces of his shirt, and her lips knew the spot along the scars on his chest that made him stutter her name.

"We might be getting carried away," Claude gasped. He traced the lacy pattern of her tights, relishing every unmended patch that teased extra skin. "I thought _you'd_ be the level-headed one about this."

Neither of them were; that was the problem. Claude had his hand up her shirt when Byleth thought she heard someone approaching, and she just about _flung_ him toward the opposite wall before a tabby cat rounded the corner.

Except for his trip home, they hadn't spent a night apart since Enbarr.

The worries came out at night. After a long day training—even though her sword skills were keener than ever—Byleth tumbled into her bed frowning. "I don't know if…" _If we can do this. Without my powers._ But you didn't speak fears like that aloud, so she said instead, to the dark, "We have to be extra careful in Shambhala."

Claude wriggled his arms around her. He was only a nose away, sleeping on the same pillow, bare-faced, his hair limp, and a faint darkness in the hollows of his eyes—nothing artful about the way he presented himself, but this was a view of him she held dear. "They'll be our last battle. After them, we'll have our peace. No more war. No more walls. We won't have to fight again. Just boring roundtables and trade negotiations and balding dukes, how about that?" 

With a soft laugh, Byleth let herself imagine it would be that easy. Dealing with insufferable lords sounded nice when he put it that way. She'd been a warrior for so long, but the months of bloodshed had drained the fight from her; she was ready to tend to the lives she helped protect, to rebuild over the scorched earth.

"Mmm. The most boring peace," she agreed, catching his legs with hers as she shifted forward to meet his lips.

As Byleth let fatigue sink her into sleep, the thought of dying didn't faze her; it never had. She would give her life for those she loved, for their dreams, and for the dawn—that hadn't changed. She was just more aware of death's shadow looming—of all the things she might leave incomplete and unsaid if she was gone too soon.

What little time they shared in this world.

  
::::

  
One by one, the Deer returned to Garreg Mach, and two months passed like the flick of a blade. There was hardly a moment to catch up, let alone gossip; Shambhala stood before them, dark and strange.

Breaching the stronghold was anything but straightforward. Stealth was the tactic—take out as many guards as possible without alarms going off. War-honed coordination reduced casualties among the battalions as they funneled through the entrances. Byleth kept a generous ratio of healers scattered among their ranks.

But progress could still only be made with blood. Soldiers fell in numbers that could have been prevented had she made an adjustment to strategy. When it came to doing math with lives, the question was no longer, _should she turn back time?_ but _which battalions would she place in front to bear the greatest risk?_ With only bad options, were her decisions any better than coin flips?

She couldn't hesitate making them; she couldn't spare the seconds. Choice after choice, she'd live with the battlefield she wrought. Before, Byleth was able to do this without trembling. Maybe soldiers were falling because they glimpsed the fear in her. The black-metal walls were claustrophobic. _Like a tomb_, a thought in her head chanted over and over. 

Gruelingly, they pierced the heart of the city without light.

She just didn't see Thales's last stand coming.

Destruction rained upon Shambhala in a single blast. It was all crashing down: the walls, the ceiling, the earth around them. "Everyone out!" Byleth pulled stragglers to their feet. The heat of another missile seared near—

A white wyvern soared into the sky. Her heart stopped.

No, not a wyvern—a white dragon. _Rhea_. 

She had wanted Rhea dead once. Hated her for the secrets she kept, for her cruel judgments made in the name of the Church. All that poison drained away as Rhea flew up to meet the pillars of light.

"Byleth!"

Claude's voice jerked her attention back to earth. Another wall broke in a spray of rubble. Byleth ran for shelter beneath a crushed titanus before Claude did anything reckless to save her. 

A barrage—then silence.

Byleth squinted past the clouds of dust. She clambered out of her shelter coughing, cape across her mouth. There were no more bombs, no dragon, no Thales. In the middle of the debris, a crumpled body lay in a pile of ceremonial robes.

She crawled over and gingerly lifted Rhea's head. The strange blood puddling around her stank. "Nemesis," Rhea whispered. She fell limp.

From the ruins of Shambhala, an old enemy emerged.

::::

How did you face the impossible?

Claude drew up behind Byleth as their forces stared down the red-eyed Nemesis. "We do this together," he said. He was battered and healed ten times over, new scars on old. Beyond him were the other Deer, waiting for orders with hands on their weapons.

Byleth tightened her grip on her own silver sword. For all their preparation, they had no idea what would happen next, and there were no leaders to look toward except themselves. Maybe they would fail. Maybe they would meet their unceremonious end like too many of her former students. She and Claude both knew it, even if they didn't say it. It was hidden in the contingencies of their battle plans, in the letters sent out across Fódlan that placed the right allies in the right positions.

Yes, they were mortal—death would always win in the end—but they had too much to do in too little time; spiteful resolve was a strength reserved for humans. She'd embrace it too.

She wanted to linger and tell Claude she loved him again and again so that her heart would never race for any reason but him. But there would be time for that afterward, because there would _be_ an afterwards. 

"Together," she said. 

They cleared a path through the swarms of dead and conjured armies direct to Nemesis. Lorenz and Leonie rode into the fray one after the other. The dark mage drew up a shield for the bow knight who aimed a curved shot; they were just a distraction as Cyril flew Lysithea within range and she called lightning down. Hilda's relic axe glowed in the storm, swinging fearlessly up close. An armored Raphael plunged in just in time to block a lethal blow, and Ignatz swift-footedly struck an opening.

Nemesis stood tall and unbroken. "Pathetic," he growled, lashing his sword out in a wide circle to force retreat.

"We need to disarm him," said Byleth, after he deflected a second wave of attacks.

"Triangle formation?" Claude suggested.

She nodded and stretched out her hand. "And take me with you. We'll do this in one shot."

She climbed up on Zahra and held on as they sped toward Nemesis alongside the two other wyvern riders. They launched their strike just as Nemesis's sword swung out at Byleth and she caught it with her own. An arrow whistled past her ear, shrill and sure, distracting him long enough for her to wrest free. 

With one last look at Claude, one last squeeze of his hand, Byleth leapt from the wyvern. She was afraid to fly and she was afraid to fall—that would never change—but she would do it anyway. 

She was mortal. Fragile. Furious. 

No goddess. No Sword of the Creator. Just Byleth. 

But not alone.

Whether she stood before the mountains that divided lands or found herself in the depths of the darkest chasm where time stood still, his hand would find hers and dawn would be just over the horizon. 

A streak of red light blazed down. Claude's aim was true; it always was.

The Fallen Star arrow missed Nemesis—

And pierced through the crest stones in the hilt of his sword, shattering them.

With a swing and thrust, Byleth cracked his powerless blade and ran Nemesis through. The bandit's eyes bulged. He keeled, bloody. He was dust before he struck the ground.

The darkness melted away. Robed enemy soldiers fled into the thickets. Other soldiers disintegrated.

Byleth tumbled to the ground, dazed and alive, the world more vivid than ever. The roaring around her, she realized, were cheers. When she staggered to her feet, Hilda collided into her first. Then Lysithea, Leonie, Raphael and Ignatz. Lorenz took his time dismounting, then joined the fray as Leonie yanked him in. Marianne arrived with Claude, his arm slung over her shoulder as she finished healing him. Hilda swooped in to swing Marianne around as Byleth caught Claude in her own embrace.

_"We did it."_

  
::::

  
For the third time that night, Byleth found Claude's winking gaze across the celebrating hall. He was wearing that vest that buttoned up snug against his torso, paired with neatly tailored trousers that heightened his frame. Illuminated by the room's golden glow, hair swept back, adorned with jewelry he hadn't worn during the course of the war—Claude really looked the part of a prince, too regal for the grey-brick setting.

Herself, she didn't know how to dress for a victory feast, apparently. Hilda had scolded her choice of a black dress as being too much like mourning wear, even though Byleth thought it looked nice, being all shimmery.

"It is! It just isn't the right occasion! Well, when you're queen, I'll lay out outfits for each day of the week," Hilda said, who apparently just named herself the royal stylist.

But when Hilda wasn't looking, Claude had come up behind Byleth, cupping her hip. "You look like the stars," he whispered against her ear. 

That was nearly two hours ago, the last time they'd spoken, and she still felt the shiver that had run down her spine.

Byleth watched Claude extract himself from his queue of conversations. She turned from whichever loquacious lord was speaking to her and matched Claude's hastening steps, throwing an apology over her shoulder. Soon, she and Claude were both bolting out into the gardens, their hands twining as they crossed the threshold.

In the hedged shadows, they danced a little, tipsily. They talked about their bawdy, drunk friends. They discussed the bits of good news they received from all ends of Fódlan.

And then finally, Byleth murmured into his shoulder, "When are you leaving?"

"Can the answer be 'never'?"

"When _should_ you leave?"

Claude sighed, kissing her fingertips. "Soon."

Biting her lip, she let her fingers trail along his jaw. "Then you should go. Then… the sooner you come back, right?" When he shut his eyes and sighed again, she leaned closer to him until the warmth of him enveloped her. "This part is always going to be difficult. Claim your throne. And then the new ruler of Fódlan can consider arranging some diplomatic visits."

Chuckling, he only held her tighter. His schemes were finely spun genius. He could break down Fódlan's walls armed with nothing but charm and a lucky star. It wouldn't take long. Although… if he wanted relations between Fódlan and Almyra to improve in particular, Byleth didn't understand why he hadn't suggested the most obvious ploy yet.

"Something else on your mind?" he asked.

Byleth hesitated for only a second before it came spilling out. "I'm sure you've thought about it too. That if I rule Fódlan and you rule Almyra, we could… That is, if we were together—_officially_ together—" She hadn't felt her heart pound so loudly since Enbarr, and she hadn't even really posed the question yet.

Head tilting, Claude stared as a smile bubbled to his lips. "Are you suggesting what I _think_ you're suggesting?"

The most unromantic proposal in all of history? Only if it was a good idea. And the way he was looking at her now—like he wanted to laugh, maybe in delight or maybe because it was ridiculous—she didn't want to take her chances. "Never mind—do you want to go back in? You should try that dessert before Lysithea eats it all. The won't have it in Almyra—" She tried to edge past him but Claude captured her hands as she pulled away.

"Byleth—Byleth—" He wouldn't stop smiling. "_My love—_"

She inhaled sharply, blushing furiously at the new nickname. "Just tell me it's a stupid idea. If I'm the ruler of Fódlan, marriage is probably more complicated than that. Are there _laws?_" There had to be a reason why he never suggested it before. "Would people accept it? I hope they'd be happy for us, since we both fought the war. And then on your side—would your people be okay if their king—"

Claude ceased fighting for her hands and instead cupped her face. "Forget about all of that. Byleth. Do you _want_ to?"

"Of course." She stared back at him, dizzy from his marveling gaze and unadorned grin—but mostly shocked at needing to be asked. She could spend a lifetime like this and it wouldn't be enough. "I love you." 

The world seemed to shift, a door in her heart opening as if speaking the words aloud made them more real than they already were. _She loved him_—it was so simple and true. Claude laughed brightly, eyes shining, and Byleth could hardly think of anything beyond how radiant the sight was; she never knew she could make him speechless like that. 

He pressed her forehead to hers, and happiness caught in her own throat, because the way he was looking at her could only mean a _yes_—they were going to do this. He kissed her until she felt weightless and she didn't know how many people could see and she didn't care.

All she knew were his lips and his whispers: "I love you, Byleth. I love you with everything I am. _Marry me._"

::::

"Can't believe you beat me to it."

Claude traced the ring on her finger as Byleth slunk closer, her whole body humming. They had gone back to his room and completely missed the rest of the feast to tangle in bed instead. Curled against him, she never wanted to move again. 

"Honestly, I was scared to ask," he murmured. "I didn't want you to think…"

Ah, so it was _that_. "I know"—Byleth tipped his head down to look at her so that Claude would hold no doubt—"you would never marry me for anything less than love."

His gaze gentled, the furrow in his brow relaxing. His lips met hers softly, idly, as if by reflex. Finally at ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only one six-months-later epilogue to go!!


	5. afterglow

They didn't announce an official engagement; they'd wait until Claude earned his throne for that. In the matter of romance, announcing it was only a formality. Planning their hypothetical wedding would most likely be a headache and a half—dealing with the congratulatory overtures, the unwanted suggestions, the fretful mixing of traditions, the careful doling of invites. Symbolically, for the future of Fódlan and Almyra, it would be incredibly important. 

But for Byleth herself, all she really needed was his promise to never let her go. In the shadow of his wyvern, where no one else saw, Claude held onto her as long as he could before he departed for Almyra, murmuring embarrassingly poetic things that made her laugh as much as blush.

Her first months as ruler of Fódlan went by quickly. Truthfully, Byleth was too busy to miss Claude's presence most of the time. Reconstruction meetings, hiring meetings, trade meetings, meetings to discuss borders, meeting with old friends who could be better allies, tea with Lorenz who provided commentary for every previously mentioned meeting, letter-writing to those who couldn't meet in person—and the last two times Byleth thought she had a spare moment, she had a tailor appointment with Hilda.

When she did miss Claude, it was when she was happiest, when she wished she could be sharing that moment with him. Exchanging letters wasn't the same. At night, she missed falling asleep in his company; when she woke, she missed having him be the first thing she saw, his hands be her first touch, his murmured _"morning"_ the first thing she heard, kissed against her forehead. Her bed felt cold, no matter the thickness of the quilts. 

But inevitably, she would get out of bed and there would be much to do.

Her mind was for the battlefield, not for roundtables or royal courts, but once, Byleth was a mercenary who would have never thought herself a professor. Her students became leaders of territories themselves; others started guilds and shops. Even after the war, with a new title and symbolic crown and the ceremony that bestowed both upon her, she grappled with the idea of calling herself a ruler. She was a protector—of those around her now and those in generations to come. She did what was necessary to build a better world, stone by stone, soul by soul. It just so happened that she did so by leading.

She was still learning the politics of Fódlan and those of the countries beyond its walls, but she'd already seen the lasting impact of war and division. If she didn't help strike down the barriers between countries and those that lived in people's minds, strife would continue like a weed unchecked. Lasting peace required cooperation and trust, a guiding hand to urge people onward.

War might return one day—all it took was one despot, one tragedy, one betrayal, forged into a knife to slice lands apart—but she'd do her best to make her people unbreakable even if she was no longer there to guide them.

As strong in their hearts as they were in spirit. 

::::

When Byleth broke open the seal of Claude's latest letter, her eyes landed on a sentence in the middle:

_I've been thinking about this scheme. _

Of course he had.

Rumors about her and Claude had well-saturated the whispers between Fódlan's Throat and the Almyran capital; how strange that their Duke Riegan would abandon not only his title at the height of his popularity, but his queenly, not-so-secret beloved. Unbeknownst to the gossipmongers, they had greater plans afoot. They were only waiting for the right moment to enact them.

A last-stand rebellion from Imperial sects would be the stage.

Byleth was, frankly, getting tired of these final, _final_ battles. But like the turning of the world, sometimes there was more shadow than light. Skirmishes had been plaguing the former Alliance border; none of the fighting had reached Derdriu yet, but the capital seemed to be the rebels' ultimate goal. Byleth's own scouts had reported preparations for a larger-scale attack and activity from Those Who Slither in the Dark.

She had reluctantly kept more reserve forces nearby for that reason, to the detriment of territories who needed their soldiers to return. Claude provided a conveniently creative solution:

_Lure the enemy out. They're waiting for an opening, so give them an opening. Send the bulk of your troops to other areas, and Almyra will—stealthily—keep an army on standby to make up for their absence. The united front will be history-making—you can see it, right?_

History was littered with stories; people preferred stories to truth. A dramatic joint assault against the last of their shadowy enemies, set against the backdrop of the newborn Fódlan's capital? There would be an opera by the end of the month. 

Plan for the future as much as the present. Those who marched into the Empire during the war were no strangers to the Almyran army, but the rest of Fódlan still erred on the side of wary—this would change that overnight. Sending away troops was risky, but some goals were worth being impatient about. 

Besides, they'd pulled off far more improbable things.

::::

Derdriu's reserve troops returned to their respective territories. The rebels attacked a week later—earlier than expected.

Rain beat down on the battlefield. Byleth couldn't hold the eastern flank by herself for much longer. She had insisted upon taking the area on herself; the position was easily defensible and a generous number of turrets supported her. She sustained only minor injuries thus far—nothing a healer couldn't quickly fix—but she was exhausted. With so few troops, she wasn't reducing numbers from those defending the residential side of the city.

Her grip on the pommel of her sword was slippery as she struck down another mage. Beyond the thickets, the sea fog sliced apart with a crack of lightning.

Finally.

Ships bearing Almyran flags entered the harbor. Wyverns darkened the skies with thunderous war cries. At the front of the charge—

Her breath caught in her throat. Claude said that Almyra would send an army. He never said _he'd_ be leading it.

Which meant she could admonish him in person. "You're late!" Byleth called, when he flew down to meet her.

"We came as fast as we could!" And from the slight note of panic in his voice, she knew Claude was telling the truth. He was a regal sight; his armor was like nothing she'd seen before, patterned in golds, reds, and greens. His hair was longer, tied up in a ponytail, though that dangle of hair still fluttered in front of his face. 

He leapt down and entered the fray, and a fresh burst of energy buoyed Byleth forward. Back to back, they cleared out the entire area as the din of the fighting elsewhere turned a promising tide.

When they at last earned a lull, Byleth whirled around to Claude with all the bright-eyed hope and longing only absence could stir. At most a second of hesitation passed—a blip of consideration of what would be appropriate, some half-formed question of whether he was king already—before their mouths crashed together, inevitable and rain-soaked. One hand on their weapon, the other sweeping past blood and mud to hold the other in an embrace.

They parted and Claude gulped, breathless. "Miss me?"

She licked her lips, grinning. Gods, she did. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"If you want me to miss you more, give me a less hectic job."

"Fair enough." Claude kissed her again, one eye open. Cursing low, he hefted his bow, loosing an arrow over her shoulder. A _thunk_ echoed in the distance. "We should—" 

"Yeah."

They returned to battle.

::::

The Battle at Derdriu was an extraordinarily successful defense—a miracle so perfect, one might say it was planned ahead. A triumphant Fódlan and their Almyran allies hurrahed together as the sun broke through the clouds and the last of the enemy surrendered. Soldiers shook hands; introductions and feast invitations were abound. 

When the two commanders emerged from their respective armies, anyone who knew anything about them had decent suspicions of what was about to happen. A chain hung around the new Almyran king's neck with a silver ring at its vertex, and the new Fódlan queen had a similar necklace of her own.

Claude knelt before Byleth with a third ring—an heirloom he brought from Almyra—and asked Byleth to marry him again in front of two armies of witnesses. A formality—albeit a dramatic one. Fodder for future operas. Even if she didn't care for drama, Byleth would relent that there was something terribly romantic about them.

The once Fell Star and the crescent-crested king. A blade for a dreamer. A dreamer for the dawn. 

They had a long road ahead; the end of the war was only the beginning. Right now, they just added a wedding to plan. Byleth would have to meet the other Almyran commanders before they left. Lorenz had a whole to-do list ready for Claude, and she would have to remember to lock the bedroom door, just in case he was too eager to unload them. For the moment, Byleth just wanted a bath, maybe a nap. Tomorrow, she'd like to wake up in Claude's arms.

When she joined Claude on Zahra, he was grinning madly, probably because she was, too. In the life before she knew him, she never would have predicted her journey here. Of course, she never expected to become a queen, but more than that, she never thought… that she could feel so happy.

Claude would say it was fate that they met, but she would describe themselves a little differently: they carved their fates for each other. 

She was his light. 

And her heart beat for him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sort of ended up being my post-timeskip rewrite with a Byleth focus. This is the Byleth I prefer - the blue-haired mortal Byleth who becomes a reluctant but dutiful ruler. And the Claudeleth--war-worn, struggling through it together, outwardly hopeful but honestly unsure of what's about to happen next, and of course, desperately in love. The couple that schemes together, reigns together!! 
> 
> THANK YOU FOR READING UNTIL THE END C:

**Author's Note:**

> twitter! [@bylass_](https://twitter.com/bylass_) ♥️


End file.
